#moonlit trails | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

eowynstwin · 8 days ago

Text

peristalsis - iii

selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." cunnilingus. analingus. spitting. piv. doggy. missionary. rough sex. size kink. breeding kink. biting. mean soap. manipulative soap. smut. . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

The ocean calls the seal to return, and you finally heed the growing chill you’ve been ignoring, as well as the complaints of your nearly-empty stomach.

Starvation is not on your list of preferred ways to end your own life, so you check the fridge Johnny said he had stocked. What you find is disconcerting—hoping for snack foods, pre-packaged conveniences, you instead find a carton of eggs, hard cheeses, condiment bottles. Milk in a jug, green herb bundles, sticks of butter, and an unopened package of bacon.

The freezer is much the same. Bags of vegetables and meats like shrimp or scallops. Frozen loaves of bread. Not even a single carton of ice cream. When the pantry also yields nothing more ready to eat—no chips, no cup ramen, no cans of soup—you give up.

There’s a hierarchy of action you’re willing to take to preserve yourself, organized around a precept of energy expenditure—eating spends less than cooking, so you focus on the former and do not practice the latter anymore.

Even though most food has lost its taste by now.

So you lay down on the couch. Sulking, maybe, but it’s the only halfway satisfying thing left to you. You angle yourself toward the shelf of books it faces in place of a TV; it’s mostly romance novels. Bright pink or blue or violet or red spines facing outward, most of them already cracked and creased down through their titles.

Did Johnny stock those for you too—emptying the shelves of a thrift book store for a woman he knew would be alone—or are they just set dressing for his dream of a honeymoon getaway?

You start thinking about the cliffs by the cove.

They’re not very tall. Maybe three stories. You would feel the impact—and it might not even work. You would lay there at the bottom, in the packed sand, broken. But alive to feel every consequence of it.

You might still die, but it would be slow. Someone could find you, and save you. Probably Johnny. You might be permanently broken—worse off than when you began.

It’s not an option.

You could have just bought a gun if you stayed home. It would have been cheaper, and faster—

Anxious energy needles at your legs and prickles along the insides of your palms; you sit up, agitated. Your stomach bubbles as the acid inside slides around with nothing to eat into. You scowl at yourself and retrieve Johnny’s jacket from the floor.

It’s colder outside than before, when you leave the cottage for the third time that day for the walk to Vatersay village. You can see it from the front door of the cottage, only about a mile away, and as you get going, you find a walking trail cutting through the machair grass leading in its direction.

The sky darkens far earlier than you expect, on the way. You hadn’t thought you were far enough north for that. Absent of city lights, the Hebridean starscape peeks through gaps in the moonlit clouds overhead, winking to life as the sun retreats around the earth’s curve. You pause—even your ennui is no match for the cosmos—looking to see if you can find the arm of the Milky Way, but the autumn sky does not seem inclined to show it to you.

By the time you reach the village outskirts, warm rectangles of yellow light are already brightening the windows against a heavy blue night. You get directions to the pub from an older man walking his dog—Last Cull, it’s called. You find it with a carved wooden sign, adorned with the silhouette of a lounging seal, hanging by the door at the front, and walk in.

Johnny said that less than a hundred people populate the island; when you walk in, at least a third of them must be here, and their collective chatter, along with the sounds of drinking glasses clinking or hitting tables, and the warble of classic rock music, all rush at you at once when you open the door, carried on a wave of orangey lamplight and the smell of hops and a burst of thick, hot air.

It’s more life—more sound—than you were remotely prepared for, and you freeze in the threshold. You stand there long enough that, worse, several heads turn to look at you—

The outsider.

You duck your head, and look at the floor as you direct yourself at an empty stool at the bar. Your purse beats against your leg with every quick step, heavy with a tourist’s excess preparation, and following eyes lance you like pins through a butterfly’s wing.

A man in a beanie and mutton chops is wiping a glass dry behind the counter; he looks at you drolly when you sit down.

“W’can I get you?” he asks, surprising you with a distinctly un-Scottish accent.

You blink several times. “Um…”

The bartender is immediately unimpressed. “Liverpool, love. You drinking or eating?”

You flush. “I’m sorry—um—both?”

He nods. He does not offer a menu. “Right.”

He disappears with the same abruptness of manner behind a swinging door, leaking greenish fluorescent kitchen light around the edges and through the circular window set up in the middle.

Whatever waves you made upon your arrival already seem to have dissipated, ineffectual in the long-term; conversation in heavy Scots flows around you, relaxed and indistinct. The pub is warm with body heat, little groups of islanders pulled in close together around pints and tankards and easy conversation.

These people likely have known each other for years; seen each other grow up. Watched time etch lines across one another’s faces. You can’t really understand the words being exchanged between any of them, but the tenor is familiar. None of it is especially important to say to one another, you know—it’s the back and forth that’s the point. The sway and rock of practiced call and answer. Of knowing, when they say something, that a response will be given, even if the response is something that’s been said a thousand times before.

You run your fingers along the dented surface of the old bar. Shift in your stool. Pick at a sliver of skin coming up from one cuticle. A single drop of oil in the middle of an ocean.

The bartender returns to you from the kitchen, no food in hand. Instead, there’s a new expression on his face—a hammer aimed at your protruding nail. His eyes are narrowed; his brows are drawn together.

“You’re Soap’s tourist,” he says.

“Um,” you say, pinned under the intensity of his stare, “no?”

He rolls his eyes. “Johnny MacTavish. Everyone else calls him Soap.”

“Oh.” You cannot guess at all where this conversation might be going. “Yes?”

“He cooks for me some nights,” the bartender says. “He’s in the kitchen right now. He says dinner is on him, and he’ll bring it out soon.”

“He’s here?” you demand, jaw dropping.

“Some nights,” the man repeats. He picks his drying rag back up, and gets to work on another glass. Your association with Johnny—Soap—seems to have unlocked in him a geniality that would otherwise be inaccessible to you. “Lad was right chuffed when you rented out the croft. Hadn’t seen him that excited in ages. Wouldn’t stop talking about it for a month.”

He hasn’t offered you a drink and doesn’t seem inclined to. Still intimidated, you don’t ask.

“He told me I was his first guest,” you say, worrying at your cuticle.

“Mm-hm,” responds. Then he eyes you. “See why he was so worked up now.”

You stop your jaw from dropping for a second time, but only just—the weight of Johnny’s hand ghosts down your back, aided by his scent radiating from his jacket, released from the fibers it’s seeped into by your body heat.

“How—um, how do you know Johnny—Soap?” you ask, awkwardly.

“If he told you to call him Johnny, call him Johnny,” the man says. “Was his captain, once upon a time. Served together in the SAS. Name’s John Price.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Price,” you say.

He grunts. “John’s fine. He been behaving?”

“Um,” you say, entirely unsure how to answer that, when the kitchen door flings open.

“Bonnie!” Johnny exclaims, apron-clad, rosy-faced, and grinning wide.

He’s exchanged his heavy sweater for a lighter, cream-colored henley, sleeves rolled up his broad forearms. Combined with the cinch of the apron strings around his middle, it highlights and flatters the athletic build of his silhouette. The hem of his kilt flutters around his knees as he hurries over.

“Hi, Johnny,” you sigh.

He balances a steaming dish on one hand and carries some silverware wrapped in a napkin in the other. The plate tilts precariously as he directs himself at you, but the food survives as he slides it in onto the bar in front of you.

“Shoulda told me you were comin’ down, or I’d’ve had somethin’ better ready to make!” he scolds, though he’s clearly too pleased to mean it.

On top of a ceramic plate, the glaze spiderwebbed with cracks from age and constant use, three oblong triangles of fried fish rest atop checked wax paper, attended by a large stainless still cup of large wedge fries that you remember are referred to as “chips.” Beside that is a small cup of some white condiment you don’t recognize. Everything looks fresh from the fryer, as if Johnny could not wait one second to long to bring it to you.

“Oy, lad, how come I don’t get that kinda table service?” someone yells out behind you. “M’ I not pretty enough for you?”

A chorus of laughter answers the teasing. You hunch into yourself.

“Go back to your pint, Angus, ya weapon!” Johnny returns grandly. Then, to you, “Here, this is the best thing for it—”

John Price has already stepped far aside; you and he watch as Johnny retrieves a long-stemmed glass from a shelf, and then pulls a bottle of wine from a low fridge. He sets the glass beside your plate and uncorks the bottle—bicep quivering as he works the screw—and then, thumb in the punt, he pours out a stream of white wine one-handed.

“Tossers over there’ll call me mad but Sav Blanc with a fish an’ chips is pure class,” says Johnny. Then, to your horror, he sets his elbows on the counter in front of you. “Go on, have us a bite.”

You stare at him agog. His cheeks are flushed red, and you’re not sure it’s from the heat of the kitchen or—his gaze flicks to your mouth and back—something far less comforting. He stares back at you, grin unmoving—eyes bright and vibrant and too intense to hold contact with for long.

You look down at the meal again. The fish looks crunchy and thick with golden brown crust; the chips are sharp at the edges and dusted with salt and some sort of green seasoning. The smell is impossible to ignore—hot and floury and oily.

You take a chip and dip it tentatively into the white sauce. Johnny’s eyes dance with excitement as they follow the movement. When you take a bite, the bitter tang of tartar meets your tongue and mixes with the mild potato as you chew.

It is only just shy of hot enough to burn but—it’s good. It’s delicious. It’s the best thing, you realize, that you’ve tasted in you’re not sure how long.

You do your absolute utmost to prevent that from showing on your face.

“It’s good,” you say, and take another bite.

“Barry!” Johnny enthuses. “Now have a dram, go on.”

Rather than allow you to pick up the glass like a normal person, Soap lifts it in one large hand—knuckles and wrist peppered with dark hair—and brings the rim to your mouth. You have no choice but to take a sip as he tilts it toward you, or else end up dribbling white wine everywhere.

You must begrudgingly agree, as it passes across your tongue, that it pairs very well with what you’ve eaten.

You nod at him in lieu of another response; the corners of his eyes crinkle. He sets the glass down and slaps the counter with both palms, pushing himself away from it.

“Enjoy that an’ I’ll be back for ya in a mo,’” he says. With a bounce in his step, he disappears back into the kitchen.

John Price throws you another droll look. “You’re never getting rid of him now.”

When he turns away to address another patron, you scowl at his back.

Johnny comes in and out of the kitchen several times, as you pick at the food. Whatever his usual habits as the pub cook, it seems he’s in a magnanimous mood this evening, bringing orders to every table and chatting with anyone who catches his attention.

And a lot of people catch his attention. Island native or not, it seems that Johnny is everyone’s favorite boy—and it’s hard not to see why. He throws bright smiles at everyone who speaks to him, pats shoulders, trades good-natured Scottish ribbing with anyone who throws it his way. He’s familiar, it seems, with everyone he talks to—or he’s good at making it seem that way.

And the effect it has on everyone he talks to is obvious. Weathered faces, the kind that seem to rest at a permanent, severe frown, rise to beam as brightly as the sun after Johnny spends a minute or two checking in on them. Fond eyes follow him around the pub; the conversations at tables he visits keeps a lively tenor even after he leaves it.

You reach for your wineglass and drink deep.

“There we go!” Johnny exclaims, noticing.

He does not leave you neglected, of course—he keeps circling around, looking at your plate, and then at you, and filling your glass when you empty it. It strikes you as rather sweet until he starts availing himself of a mouthful every time—turning the glass so that his lips cover the marks yours have made on it.

When about half of your plate has been cleared, and Johnny is returning from delivering a tray of sandwiches to another table, he comes up behind you and leans in close, hands curling around your shoulders. Mouth brushing your ear.

“Dinner rush is almost done, bonnie,” he murmurs, butter-smooth and low as banked embers. “Then I’m all yours.”

A tremor runs up the nerves in your spine; you sit up straighter when he pulls away, the fine hairs on the back of your neck reaching toward him as if statically charged.

You catch John Price eyeing you again, expression blasé. You flush up to the roots of your hair and avoid looking at him again.

Eventually, the pub begins to vacate, somewhere close to ten in the evening. No city bar, this one, even on a Friday night. You finish three-quarters of the bottle of wine in between turning the fish and chips into mush and crumbs, finally pushing everything away from you as the last stragglers jingle the bell above the door.

Then it’s just John Price, pulling on a coat, Johnny doing dishes in the kitchen, and you, alone, sneakers hooked to a rung on the barstool.

John Price sticks his head through the swinging door. “We still doing Sunday, Soap? Or d’you have new plans?”

“Course doin’ Sunday!” Johnny yells. “Canny wait!”

“Alright. I’m leaving, lock up when you go.”

And with that, John Price gives you a cursory nod, and makes his exit.

Soon after, Johnny exits the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, the motions making his pectorals twitch and flex. His apron is gone, the little v of his shirt collar exposing dark, curling chest hair.

The odd pelt—you realize, from your experience this morning, that it’s a seal’s—still hangs around another plaid kilt.

Your heartbeat is hot and heavy in your ears. You stare at him, lips pressed together tightly, a tremor working its way between your shoulders.

He tilts his head toward you, eyes half-lidded. When you meet his gaze again, his smile is set at an expectant angle.

“Drive me home, Johnny,” you finally say, wine and humiliation pulsing through your veins.

He drives you home in silence, and rests his hand on your thigh the whole way there.

You don’t move it. You don’t react, either—even when his pinky flicks against the seam of your leggings, right where it lays against your pussy. He roves his spread fingers and heavy palm all across the length and breadth of your thigh, cresting down over your knee and back up again, squeezing and massaging the fat of your quad.

You don’t say anything. He does not prompt you to do so. The corner of his mouth, when you look to him at your side, catching his profile, is curled.

The silence continues when he pulls up to the cottage—even the wind is light and quiet, as you unlock the door to let the both of you in. The night sky is cobbled with clouds that pass over slowly, letting only slivers of moonlight reach the earth, so inside the croft is dark and murky.

You don’t move to switch any lights on. Nor does Johnny, following close behind you.

Out of sight, it seems your body forgets who—or what, even—is following you. He is only a presence at your back, a body taking up space, and in the darkness, with only your hindbrain to rely on, he could be anyone.

Anything.

You stop in the middle of the living room. He hovers behind you. Not quite touching—but close enough to feel the gravity of him, strong enough to pull you in.

You drop your purse on the couch, and make to shuck his jacket—his hands take hold of the shoulders, allowing you to slide out of it. The deep, even pulse of his breathing is right there at the shell of your ear.

“Bonnie,” he murmurs, husky.

“I’m,” you say, “I’m going to use the bathroom.”

A pause. Then—“Alright,” he purrs.

You escape.

In the mirror above the sink, you look yourself in the eye. What you see is nothing you haven’t seen before—pitiable, needy, pathetic—and it’s nothing you have any desire to confront now. If you think too hard about it—if you ask yourself what you should be asking—there will be no coming back from it.

He’s been dangling this in front of you this whole time. It’s no fault of yours for taking it. This once, you aren’t to blame for what happens next. This once.

You run the cold tap over a washcloth and dab cool water across your face and down your neck. It does little to regulate the heat flushing through you.

If you don’t go out there now, he might leave.

You throw the cloth into the sink basin and open the door.

And Johnny is there, standing right there in front of it, leaning casually against the opposite wall—

Completely naked.

You stop dead.

Gray moonlight falls across his body in a thin haze. The bulky, sculpted planes of it roll with dense muscle and dark hair, which is thick and curly across rounded pectorals and joins in a broad stream down his abdomen. Twisting into a nest at his groin, they cushion a long, wide cock, uncut, half-hard—

That jumps at your appearance.

He meets your eyes. They are silvery and sharp, even in the gloam. Drags his gaze down—leveling it with your tightening nipples. Then he reaches to his side and twists the doorknob to the bedroom.

It swings open. Empty bed in the doorframe.

His cock jumps again. A diamond-drop of moisture beads at the tip.

“Go on,” he murmurs.

You walk in, barely aware of your own footsteps. His bare feet cross the floor behind you, and then the door shuts again.

He does not say another word as he approaches you; you do not turn to face him. You stand as if restrained in place as large, warm hands skim the dip of your waist, slope easily down your hips and up again; he pinches the hem of your sweater and lifts. You raise your arms, lost in the fugue of your pounding heart; he brings it over your head, and tosses it to the side.

Rough hands smoothing over your bare skin, almost like sweeping away dust. He unhooks your bra with startling dexterity—fingers slide beneath the straps and loosen them down your shoulders. Hands dipping down your chest, edging under and replacing the cups around your breasts.

His thumbs press your nipples in, circle around them; you gasp, flinch back against him, and feel his cock, fully erect, nestle in the cleft of your ass. He huffs a laugh into your hair.

His hands return to your waist, and they slide down, pressed open against your sides, as Johnny goes to his knees behind you. He grasps the waistbands of both panties and leggings and—face centimeters away from the globe of one ass cheek—pulls both down in one smooth, soft sweep.

It feels like being skinned. Your heart beats a hammer in the arteries against your throat. You nearly lose your balance, tilting when you lift one foot out of your clothes, before one of Soap’s hands return to your waist to give you ballast. Holding you up like it’s nothing. He squeezes the meat of your hip tenderly, massages the give of it with the tips of his fingers, skin warm and rough against yours.

The moment you’d first caught sight of Johnny in the airport, he’d slotted cleanly into a certain taxon of manhood; one need only to examine his morphology briefly—the mohawk, the muscles, stubborn refusal to cover his knees even as winter fast approaches—to understand that his is the lifestyle of the fast-living. He leers. He gropes. He runs down what he sets his eyes on whether his prey likes it or not.

An organism with cheap pleasure on its mind, and nothing more. Johnny’s bull-focused intentions had stunk acrid and obvious the moment they’d fallen upon you—aimed, you thought unceremoniously, between your legs and nowhere else.

So why, as his hands drag up the backs of your thighs, is he touching you so tenderly? Teasing you open, rather than prising you apart. Touching you as if he’s in no hurry to do anything else.

It feels like an insult. It feels like mercy you didn’t ask for. Without thinking, without knowing you’re going to do it—you slap his hand away.

“Is this going to take all night, or are you going to get around to fucking me sometime soon?” you snap, galled.

An indrawn breath. His or yours, you’re not entirely sure.

Then he rises up, shoves a hand hard between your shoulder blades, and you topple forward onto the bed, flailing, landing face-first, as Johnny knees up behind you.

“So that’s how you want it, then,” he says. Nonchalant. “Aye, I can do that. Come here.”

You don’t have time to scramble away before rough hands grab your hips and yank them back, pulling you up onto your knees, and with no more preamble Johnny shoves his face into your naked pussy from behind. Immediately hot and star-bright; thumbs hook into your outer folds to spread you open moments before his tongue burns a stripe from clit to perineum, no slow build, no warm-up, before he starts eating you out like he’s starving.

You shriek from the sudden contact, hips jerking, but his hold is iron, and the more you resist the more he tightens his grasp, fingertips digging down near to bone. He licks at your folds, at the dips between them, as if he’s pulling swipes of you away on every taste bud, imprecise, mouthing your cleft as if he means to swallow it whole.

When you reach back with one hand to grab his hair—to hold him where he is or shove him away, you’re not sure—he releases one hip and shackles your wrist in his fingers, bending your arm at the elbow and pinning it to your lower back.

“You asked for it,” he growls against you, “and now you’re gettin’ it,” another dig of his tongue around your entrance, “so don’ fuckin’ complain.”

He pulls away and abruptly spits on your asshole before diving back in. With the thumb of the same hand around your wrist, he smears it around, dipping just inside at the same time his tongue breaches your cunt; you feel teeth press against your perineum for a breathless moment before he lets up, and then he prods your clitoris with little jabbing licks, forcing his way up under the hood that fails to protect it from his onslaught.

You have a free hand—you reach back to slap at him again. The theory of insanity proves true; one wrist joins the other, and Johnny uses his own weight to move you as he likes, arms curled over your hips, rocking your entire body against his mouth, lips smacking against you as he alternates between licking up the slick that abruptly starts welling around your entrance and sucking your labia between his teeth.

He grunts and snarls after every brief surfacing for air, every time his tongue touches you again, as if every new taste of you in his mouth is better than the last. His hands tighten into vices around your wrists as he buries in deeper, groaning, shoving his face against you so hard it thrusts your hips forward, which he greedily drags back, and then he flutters his tongue against your clit as if to punish you for his own forcefulness.

“Johnny—” you cry, “Johnny, slow down, slow down—!”

A climax swells within you before you have any time to prepare for it, a closeout curling in so fast that it hits you before you can brace. Johnny thumbs your ass again and suctions his lips closed around your clitoris, tearing a scream from your throat, ripping your orgasm even further out of you as you suddenly, violently convulse.

It jerks you in his grasp, as if whipping you, and then, as fast as it came at you, it recedes; you sag, dizzy and gulping air, but Johnny’s mouth opens around your pussy again as if nothing happened, tongue and lips losing none of their frantic voracity.

“Johnny,” you whimper, “Johnny, I came, you can stop—”

“Don’t give half a shite, am no’ done,” he snarls, accent thicker than you’ve heard it before.

Your breath shudders out of you as he runs the edges of his teeth up your folds, and then, briefly, the flat of his tongue circles your asshole, before dipping back down into the heat of your cunt. He catches your clit again in a quick succession of sucking kisses, loud and wet and pulling at it so hard that tugs at nerves all the way down your legs, spasming through your calves.

Your breath thins in your lungs, escaping you in high, reedy whines, and finally, he pulls his mouth away—only to replace it with his hand. He transfers your crossed wrists into one grasp, wedging all four fingers between the split of your cleft and shaking it vigorously, like a dog might with a small animal clamped in its jaws. He follows this with several rapid slaps against flesh that is already screaming with overstimulation—

And then the head of something hot and hard parts you, circling to find its target, and with as little preamble as he began Johnny shoves his fat, rock-hard cock into you, all the way to the base in one harsh thrust.

It shoves the air from your lungs in one go, leaves you no room to breathe in before he grabs your wrists again, like reins, pulls halfway out, and rams back in again, setting a brutal pace, his thighs slamming against the fat of your ass at a rapid staccato that shakes the old bedframe on its creaky legs.

He barely pulls out as he fucks you this way, thrusting short and hard, your face crushed against the bedsheets as he uses your arms to pull you back against him to meet every thrust. The fattest part of his cock catches your g-spot over and over, bright and hot as iron pulled from a fire, and you can’t even get enough breath in your lungs to do more than whimper every time his hips meet yours.

“This is wha’ she fuckin’ needed, hen, aye?” Johnny snarls. “Hissin’ an’ spittin’ like a stray cat, didnae know wha’s good fer it, jus’ needed a big cock in ‘er wet cunt, didnae she?”

A long, shaky moan is the only response you can give. Fast, fast and hard—he bucks against you wildly, violently, sending shockwaves up your body that jounce your breast and ripple across your blazing cheeks. Your mouth hangs open at a loose angle—if you try to close your teeth, you might accidentally bite into your tongue—

He releases your wrists, and your arms fall hard to the bedspread. Then he bends over your back, planting his hands in the spaces over your shoulders, making a cage with his his body. It changes the angle of his thrusts, lets him force his way in even deeper, kissing the head of your cervix. You climb your hands up the bedspread, claw at his wrists with your nails, but you might as well be a curl of wind trying to knock over a pillar of stone.

“You can bitch an’ whine all you wan’ at me, bonnie,” he says, a nasty thread in his tone, “but I know mean pussy just needs some pettin’ to make it nice again, don’ I, now?”

You try to struggle under him, search for some sort of purchase in the sheets beneath you, and for a moment you think he’s making space to let you; his weight retreats as you rise to all fours, but then one solid, beefy arm closes around your neck in a chokehold. He brings the both of you up, settling you over the cradle of his thighs as he sits back on his heels, clamping your back against his chest.

His free hand snakes down between your thighs, finding your clitoris again with rough, abrading calluses. A hard, grinding roll of his hips, upward and forward, pushes it up into his touch, like the crest of a wave, but gravity gives you no escape on the downwell; he pushes and pulls you as he likes, heel of his hand digging hard into the sensitive edge of your mons.

You scrabble with your hands for something to hold onto—you find the brackets of his wide thighs, wiry with dark hair, and dig your nails into hard, tensed muscle. He only laughs in your ear, speeds the rhythm of his hips, pinches your clitoris between his fingers and drags it around.

“Told ya, bonnie,” he gloats, taking the lobe briefly between his lips, “she wants it—” and he pushes his cock in deep, shaking his hips “—bad as he does.”

He reaches further inward and splits his fingers around his own girth, pressing upward—as if he intends to shove them in too, and choking for air as you are you think deliriously that they might just slip in, no resistance, aided by the wetness free-flowing now around him, dripping in long streams down the inside of your thighs.

Inescable—no matter what you do, it’s nothing to him. You thrash against him, whining through gritted teeth in frustration, but he only moves with you, anticipating every direction you might blindly throw yourself in to get away. You cry out in wordless fury, slapping whatever parts of him you can reach, but it doesn’t matter. There is no purchase for you anywhere, nothing you can use to grab back any sort of control.

He’s too big. Too strong. You finally begin to comprehend it in a way that had been impossible before. Looking at him from a few paces, Johnny is easy to take in; easy to summarize and dismiss when you can see the whole of him at once.

But now, at your back—he feels vast. Enormous. An undulating wall of a hard body flexing against you, mooring you to it, all heat and sweat and sharp, animalistic grunting as it pistons into you from behind. The hand manipulating your clit is wide enough to cover your pussy entirely; the pillar of his body doesn’t so much as shudder as you struggle, instinct overriding desire as you try to escape the lightning-streaks of pleasure he carelessly sends through you.

You are too primed from your earlier climax to possibly last, and Johnny seems to feel it—you flutter and clutch around him, the sensation almost painful, but when both your hands fly to the one between your legs he only increases the pressure.

“You gonna come again, bonnie?” he sneers into your ear. “Jus’ tiring yourself out, poor baby. Fightin’ it so hard, an’ it’s gonna happen anyway.”

It does—he starts slapping your pussy again, right above where his cock stretches you to your limit, quick and sharp, and you break with ragged scream, arms flailing out uselessly, nails finding his forearm around your throat.

“Johnny—” you cry out, “Johnny!”

“Fuck,” he groans in your ear, “steamin’ Jesus, fuck—”

Suddenly he pushes you away from him, and you flail again as you land face-first into the pillows. His cock slips out of you entirely, even as you’re still clenching around your orgasm, but you have no time to react, either to mourn it or be relieved, because Johnny grabs you by the thighs, flips you over in one motion, and drives back in again before it ends.

“Fuck, bonnie, so good, fuck, do it again—”

He throws your legs open, leaving your calves to shake in the air as he fucks you faster. You nearly fold in half under the force of his thrusts, knees hovering nearer and nearer to your ears. Each slap of his hips against yours ricochets up your body, and, with nowhere else to go, back down—you ring like a bell, shaking all the way into your marrow.

“Soap,” you whine, “Soap, it—I—I can’t—”

Suddenly he grabs your face in his hand, so tightly he squeezes your cheeks together, pushing out your lips, and he lurches forward to get in your face. Fury blazes from him.

“I told you,” he snarls, “to call me Johnny.”

It shocks you so much that freeze up, going completely blank. The dark, sharp lines of his brows arch dangerously over flashing eyes.

He shakes your face. “Say it.”

“J—” you slur, unable to shape it in your lips properly, “Johnny.”

His nostrils flare wide. Fury is replaced by triumph. “Good fucking girl.”

He slams his mouth against yours.

The first time he’s kissed you, and he gives you no chance to participate in it. He purses your lips with the pressure of his hand to meld with his, opening your jaw wide enough to thrust his tongue behind your teeth. The force of it presses your head back into the pillow. It’s an attack; it’s an onslaught. And—if the grunts and groans Johnny makes in his throat as he does what he likes with your mouth are any indication—

It’s what he’s really wanted this whole time.

Everything else, he’s enjoyed. But this—his mouth on yours, lips moving together, saliva pooling and seeping between the seams—is the prize he’s aimed for all along.

It touches something inside of you. Something tiny and ugly. A thing that you’ve wrapped up in nacreous layers of shame and guilt, lodged in your soft tissues, and tried to forget about.

It sends your arms to wrap around Johnny’s neck, fingers digging into the shifting muscles of his shoulders. You close your thighs around his waist, crossing your ankles, and roll yourself up into every meeting of his hips with yours.

He moans, higher, and drops his full weight over you. His belly meets yours; his chest crushes your breasts under his. He uses the full brunt of his weight to rut into you, crashing his hips against you, stealing the breath from your lungs—

It’s an old trick you’ve learned from small experience, inhaling when you feel the rush coming—as if climax blooms in the lungs rather than the clitoral head, and filling your alveoli gives it no place to expand. It’s useful to prolong satisfaction, to stave off the end.

Johnny does not give you opportunity try. The only thing he allows you to occupy your mouth with is his, and as hypoxia thins out your bloodstream—as you begin to struggle for air—you go rigid with your third climax beneath him.

However long it lasts, you don’t know. It freezes you in place, in time. It wrenches your head back, arching your spine, tears one long, broken cry from your throat.

“Fuck yes,” Johnny gasps, feeling you clamp down so hard around him it seems you may never release him. He moves to bury his face in your throat. “Fuck yes, fuck yes, fuck—yes—”

His tempo falters, signaling the end—

Realization—“Wait!” you find some presence of mind to cry out—“a condom! We didn’t use—”

“It’s got a’go somewhere hen, an’ I’m no’ wastin’ it on yer belly,” he snarls, “just—just—yes—fuck—”

Then his teeth come down on your neck, hard, as his hips beat against yours, and then he buries himself to the root with one final, full-body thrust. He shakes his hips flush against yours as he groans long and loud, cock pulsing inside you, wet heat flooding you in jets, so full that it spills back out to drip down between you.

He pants hard into your shoulder. Your own breath labors, vision swimming.

A cloud covers the moon outside. Johnny makes no move to pull away from you—instead his arms wedge beneath you, banding around your back, and he rolls you both to your sides. You feel him kissing the sting his teeth left on your neck, as you lay there together, sweat cooling on your naked bodies.

Eventually, he pulls back enough to look at you. You have no time to arrange your expression, no idea even what you might want to present to him; whatever he sees on your face makes him smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“There’s my bonnie,” he murmurs, and the next kiss he gives you is soft and very sweet.

Your lips rise to meet his without you thinking about it.

He strokes your back very gently. Sooner than yours, his breathing evens out. Even as he softens inside of you, he keeps his hips against yours.

“Johnny,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says. “I know. Just a little while longer. Can you do that for me? Aye, you can, I know it.”

You should say something about spermicide. Plan B. But the look in his eyes is so soft, so content, that you put it away for later. You just hold his gaze as he looks at you like you’re everything that could ever make him happy.

He kisses you again. Soon, the heaving of your chest abates. Exhaustion pours through you in one drenching wave; you turn your head to yawn.

“Go to sleep, bonnie,” Johnny croons, pressing his fingers into the soft part of your lower back. “I’ll clean us up, aye? You just sleep.”

You don’t have the energy to fight anymore. Soon, you’re slipping away—you’re aware for long enough to feel it when he finally pulls away from you, when he runs a warm washcloth between your legs, and then when he slides back into bed beside you and pulls up the covers.

Then you’re gone.

Sometime after midnight, you half-wake.

The moon has moved far enough across the sky that its light floods the bedroom through its one window, casting everything in silver. Your eyes open slowly, blurred with sleep; Johnny is still beside you.

He’s sitting up against the headboard; eye-level with you is his waist, covered by the thin bedsheet. You draw your eyes up his body slowly—there, his navel, dark hair curling around it. There, his chest, full pectorals rising and falling slowly with calm, even breath.

When you reach his face, you find him looking down at you, corners of his mouth curled. You meet his eyes—

The moon reflects in them. Disks of shifting light in both pupils.

Some part of you, buried in your hindbrain, shouts with alarm. It’s far away, cottoned with sleep. Muffled enough by the soreness of three full-body orgasms to be ignored.

Johnny reaches out and drags the back of one finger along the wounded part of your neck. Touch feather-light.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

Vaguely, you remember that you’ve answered this question before, but that doesn’t feel consequential. Any part of you that could protest is still lost to sleep.

As is any ability to dissemble. The truth—the thing you attempted to abandon, that has followed you regardless—slips out.

“Nobody wants me,” you whisper.

So quiet you fear he won’t hear you, and ask you to repeat it.

But Johnny tilts his head. The curl of his mouth softens to something almost kind.

It doesn’t quite get there, because a gleam of satisfaction that you cannot name colors his shining gaze.

“I want you,” he murmurs.

His broad hand covers the crown of your head, and he strokes your hair. The tide of sleep comes back in, and you know nothing more.

chapter 4 early access

#soap x reader #soap x you #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mctavish x you #john soap x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x you #soap mactavish x reader #soap mctavish #john soap mactavish #mwritessoap #madi writes #selkie soap #peristalsis #remember that hot chef who went viral recently? that's who i'm trying to evoke with pub cook soap

906 notes · View notes

sundew199 · 3 months ago

Text

The comfort of you

Tags: zoro x f!reader, fluff

Zoro loves watching you sleep, loves watching the way your guard falls easily when you’re alone with him, like the only source of comfort is his presence. He considers it an honor to know you feel safe and comfortable enough to sleep, even more so when he finds out you force yourself to stay awake around others. He smiles to himself when he traces your soft cheek with his finger, how your brows twitch at the touch, pulling a soft laugh from him.

You sleep so deeply on his chest, a trail of drool beginning at the corner of your mouth, never quite reaching his own skin. Zoro refuses to sleep when you do, his mind racing with thoughts as he looks at you. How pretty you are, how kind and accepting, how you fell for him of all people. That part is still a mystery, remembering how closed off and brash he was to you at first, honed in on his goal. But his heart kept pulling you to him, like a magnet in the vicinity of the opposite pole, stretching to connect.

Zoro often wonders of the life he can give you outside of piracy, when his life long goals have been met, when he succeeds in aiding his captain in his. Will you still want to be with him? Would you consider a slow normal life where he could teach the art of the sword to young minds? Would your love inflame or dwindle now that thrill of life on the sea was over?

He likes to think it won’t, but he’s never been sure, he can’t place all his eggs into one basket, even if he yearns to. All he wants is to grow old together, tell stories to the students that’ll learn from him or maybe even the children he’ll give you. He’d like that actually, a couple of copies of you and him, something he was once so adamantly against, but you had such an odd way of softening his hard nos.

His mind races with possibilities when he watches you sleep, the good and the bad. There are things he wants to tell you that dance in his mind but fear of jinxing it if he says it out loud. Like how he wants to seal his love for you in a ceremony, make you his wife and let the world know that the famed pirate hunter now vice captain of the straw hat pirates has a heart softened by only you. Or how he wants to end his night with you in a home over tea and sake, let you lean back into his chest and you watch the sun set over the sea and the wind rustle the cherry blossoms.

Zoro allows himself to feel when you sleep on or next to him, feel how your beating heart synchs with his and how real you are against him. His life is filled with uncertainty that is almost certain, but he never questions you or the lengths he would go to ensure you’re in his life till the end. Zoro can’t imagine you not rolling over in bed to greet him with a kiss, whether on the sunny or the home he brings you too after this adventure has closed.

Anticipation for a future with you is so sweet, so sought after by him that he has to remind himself to cherish each day, because he knows he’ll miss the lapping waves outside of his cabin on the sunny as you curl into his chest, resting up for whatever the crew gets into on the next island they’ll land at. He’ll miss the way you’ll drag him away from a party thrown by their captain for a private kiss or two, pressing you to the wall with a bottle of sake in his hand or yours, drunkenly giggling as your lips find each others. He’ll miss the way you smile at him when he joins you in Nami’s orchard, forcing you to nap under the sun with him. But he also can’t wait for the quiet slow life of just you and him and a possible family.

Watching you sleep and envisioning the future has become so dear to him, he just can’t bring himself to close his eye and join you, making up for the lack of sleep during the day. He sees everything he wants with you in the content expression on your face, tracing your features with a calloused finger and dotting your moonlit skin in feather light kisses.

“I love you.”

Is what he says into your ear as he settles in finally beside you, his body no longer able to stay awake like he wants. Carefully adjusting you so you’re heart will beat on top of his, lulling him into a dream that he can’t wait to have, knowing it’ll be filled with your bright smile and warm eyes, pulling him along to wherever the future with you holds, hoping to experience it outside of his mind one day soon.

#roronoa zoro x reader #roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro x you #zoro x you #zoro x reader #zoro roronoa x reader #zoro roronoa x you #one piece zoro #op zoro #zoro fluff

659 notes · View notes

fairene · 2 months ago

Text

my woman / ln4 sneak peek

established r. lando norris x f!reader

warning ⋯ language, alcohol use, a bit of fighting, tension, eventual smut.

a/n ⋯ i'm not dead..loll....lando plans to propose.

the drive back to the villa was thick with tension, the silence between you a heavy, suffocating thing. the soft hum of the car engine filled the void where your laughter usually lived, but tonight, it felt more like a reminder of the distance growing between you. lando’s hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles pale, the faint glow of the dashboard illuminating his face in fractured shadows. he kept glancing at you, his lips parting as though he wanted to say something, but each time, he stopped himself.

you stared out the window, the blur of greece’s moonlit coastline passing by in streaks of silver and blue. your arms were crossed, your posture stiff, but inside, you were unraveling. you could feel his gaze on you, the weight of his silence pressing against your chest, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. not yet. not when your emotions were still a storm threatening to spill over.

when the car pulled up to the villa, you didn’t wait for him to cut the engine. the door clicked open, and you stepped out without a word, the gravel crunching beneath your heels as you walked toward the house. lando fumbled to unbuckle his seatbelt, calling out your name softly, like a lifeline he was desperate to hold onto.

“wait,” he said, his voice trailing after you, but you didn’t stop. the door swung open under your hand, the cool air of the villa rushing to greet you as you moved inside, each step echoing against the quiet walls.

“please, talk to me,” he tried again, his footsteps quickening behind you as you ascended the stairs. his voice was pleading now, the vulnerability in it twisting something deep inside you, but you didn’t stop. you couldn’t—not yet.

his heart was pounding, each step feeling like he was racing against time, against the unbearable thought of you slipping away. don’t go, he wanted to say, the words clawing at his throat, but they stayed there, unspoken. instead, he reached for the bannister, his palm slick with nerves, as he chased after you.

you reached the bedroom first, the door creaking softly as you pushed it open. the room, normally a haven of warmth and comfort, felt different tonight—colder, emptier. you stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind you, not bothering to turn on the light. the moonlight spilling through the curtains was enough.

your bag landed with a dull thud on the floor as you made your way to the bed. sitting on the edge, you leaned back, your legs hanging off the side, the soft fabric of the duvet cool against your palms. you stared up at the ceiling, your chest rising and falling with the weight of everything you wanted to say but couldn’t.

lando hesitated at the door, his hand hovering over the handle. he could hear the faint sound of your breathing through the wood, steady but strained, and it made his chest ache. he swallowed hard, summoning the courage to face the storm he knew he’d helped create.

when he finally opened the door, the sight of you—bathed in moonlight, your face unreadable—hit him like a blow to the chest. you looked so far away, even though you were right there, just a few steps ahead. it terrified him, the thought of losing you, of this being the moment you slipped through his fingers for good.

“i…” his voice faltered, and he took a step inside, the door clicking shut softly behind him. “i don’t know how to fix this,” he admitted, his words trembling. “but i’ll try. i’ll do anything.”

you didn’t look at him, your gaze still fixed on the ceiling. “it shouldn’t have to feel this hard,” you said quietly, the words cutting through the space like glass.

“i know,” he said, taking another tentative step closer. “i’m sorry. for all of it—for tonight, for making you feel like you weren’t enough. you are enough. more than enough. you’re everything.”

your breath hitched, the raw emotion in his voice chipping away at the walls you’d built during the drive home. you turned your head slightly, finally meeting his gaze, and the look in his eyes—the desperation, the regret, the love—made your chest tighten.“then show me, lando,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “show me i’m not just someone you can lose in the crowd.”

taglist ⋯

@landoslutmeout@basicallyric@mybluesoul1@toriiez@customsbyjcg-blog@sofs16@strengthandstay@mybluesoul1@f1fantasys@cmleitora@idgasb@amalialeclerc@laneyspaulding19@staurdvst @oreosareara @sideboobrry11 @mortallyblueninja @fionamiller123 @2pagenumb @marvelfangirl04 @brune77e @allabouthappiness @tellybearryyyy @ringdingdingdingx @tillyt04 @danywonderland @rosebud224 @simpfortoomanymen @nataliambc @forcesensitivesoulmate @sweate-r-weathe-r @norlestappen @madszoca @milkandcookhot @fionamiller123 @16f1lc @jwiltsz @plotpal @inevesgf @theonottsbxtch

473 notes · View notes

emilys-bangs · 5 months ago

Note

I have a request but I’d understand if you’re getting too many and you don’t want to do this one. I wanted to request a super soft fic like you wake up Emily in the middle of the night because you can’t sleep and you keep asking silly questions like “would you still love me if I was a worm?” And she is super sleepy but tries to comfort you into falling asleep again and answering you as you want

midnight whispers | e.p

Tags: established relationship, reader being kinda annoying, fluff, endlessly sweet fluff u guys, no use of yn, use of petnames

Word count: 1.2k

This is the cutest thing ever I giggled

It’s 3:47.

You know because it’s been less than two minutes since you’d last looked at the clock before closing your eyes, fruitfully hoping for the sweet relief of sleep.

Shockingly, it doesn’t come.

Which doesn’t make sense, really, because you can feel the exhaustion in your bones and pressing down on your eyes. You’d been tossing and turning ever since you’d climbed into bed with Emily, your girlfriend falling fast asleep after she gave you a chaste kiss goodnight. You can hear her deep breathing right next to you and you’re slightly envious.

The room is dark, only a sliver of moonlight creeping in through the curtain providing sparse illumination. It’s reasonably cold, a light chill that has you covered beneath the blanket, and the air is still with the silence of midnight hours—all optimal conditions for you to comfortably fall asleep in, but it still evades you. Emily’s sleeping body provides warmth, too; her head is halfway onto your pillow, her slow breaths fanning across your neck.

Your eyes slide to her and you bite your lip. Should you wake her? You’re tired of wallowing in this misery for over—3:48 now—5 hours on your own, even if your sluggish brain struggles to justify how she could help.

Her chest rises and falls with slow, even breaths, her lashes dark and resting gently on her cheeks. She needs the sleep, you know she does, and some part of your heart resists waking her for your own selfish reasons.

But company is nice, even sleepy company, so you push aside the guilt and shake her gently.

“Emily,” you whisper.

Her brows furrow.

It takes a few more shakes and whispers of her name before her eyes crack open. Deep brown irises stare into yours, tired and hazy with sleep.

“What?” She mumbles. Her hand clumsily reaches for yours; it’s cold. “You ’kay?”

Is it wrong that the rough warmth of her voice already makes your muscles relax? You bring her hand up to your lips, pressing an apology to the ridges of her knuckles.

“I’m okay.” You say, kind of feeling like the worst person in the world right now. “Just can’t sleep.”

Emily frowns deeper. “Nightmare?” She whispers, her eyes growing more alert.

“No, no,” you’re quick to reassure. The concern above her brow loosens, and her lashes flutter closed again. “Couldn’t sleep to begin with.” With her hand in yours, your lips find her temple.

“Drank too much coffee?” The rasp of her voice is muffled into your neck as you trail a few kisses to her cheekbone. You’re probably being insufferable, but she doesn’t pull away—though you begin to think that’s from the sluggishness of sleep more than anything.

“Just as much as you.”

Two cups, hers with an insulting amount of Splenda and yours with decidedly less.

Emily doesn’t reply. You lean back against your pillow and find her eyes closed again. The large t-shirt she’s wearing slips down her shoulder, exposes her pale skin that looks moonlit, smooth as ivory.

Your heart thumps softly against your ribs as you smile. “Hey Emily?”

She hums sleepily.

“Do you love me?”

The corner of her mouth curls upward. “You’re sleepin’ in my bed, amor.” The combination of her sleepy voice and the Spanish makes you melt into the mattress, a stupid heat in your cheeks.

You tuck your joint hands beneath your jaw. “But that could mean nothing.”

“Means everythin’.” She whispers. Her eyes are still closed, her mouth barely moving. You should leave her alone now, but you just want to talk to her when she’s like this; sleepy and lovely, her body warm in some places and cold in others, the hushed timbre of her voice calming your restless mind.

“So you do love me?”

“Mmhmm.” Emily hums. Bless her patience. Her fingers flex between yours and you lift them from their hiding place under your jaw, bringing her hand to your lips instead. Emily exhales through her nose, the sound lazy and content as she digs her face further into your pillow.

She’s drifting again, and you’re still wide awake. “Would you still love me if I was a worm?” You blurt, squeezing her fingers.

Emily’s eyes crack open. “You’d be a cute worm,” she slurs, the small indent of a dimple digging into her cheek. You grin and she shuffles closer, her shoulder touching yours, your heads softly knocking together, “You’d be a cute anythin’.”

Again, she avoids the question. “But would you love me?” You persist. Leaning further into her, you nuzzle your nose against hers, a stupid smile forming on your lips when she scrunches her face adorably, her eyes fluttering open again.

“I’d be head over heels for you.” Emily states, now leaning into you to nuzzle her nose into yours. “Our romance would be no less epic,” her words drift into a mumble as exhaustion takes her again, forcing her eyes shut.

Even half asleep, she’s a charmer. You stare a moment at her relaxed face, letting the warmth of it rush through your whole body. Her slow breaths fall against your upper lip, warm and rhythmic.

“Do you think we’re in love in every universe?” You whisper. What is it with all these questions about love? “If I was a barista maybe, and you’d be enchanted by the color of my eyes as I gave you your coffee?” You muse, playing with her limp fingers. “Or if we’re both butterflies taking naps in the same flower—”

“Baby, please go to sleep,” Emily mumbles, her words slurring together adorably. She never calls you baby; your grin stretches wide. She untangles her fingers from yours and wraps her arm messily around your neck, bringing you into her chest. “I’ll hold ya, jus’ please sleep.” The words are lost in your hair.

You smile into her warm neck. “Oh, well, if you’ll hold me.” You tease softly, but there really is something so magical about feeling Emily’s chest rise and fall beneath yours. Hearing her steady pulse, her slow breaths, feeling her cold hand sleepily tangle in your hair. It’s easy, closing your eyes, and as she starts to drift, you feel yourself drift with her.

“Can I have a kiss?” You ask softly.

Emily nuzzles her lips into your forehead.

She’s so much softer like this, when she’s half awake. Emily is never harsh with you, but like this she’s completely unfiltered, stripped bare of her walls and her inhibitions, and you’re drunk on it, on her, on the fact that you get to see her like this.

Your eyes finally begin to grow heavy. Lashes fluttering shut, you breathe in Emily’s scent—the expensive lotion she’d rubbed into her skin before bed.

“Emily?” You whisper.

Silence rings in your ears. You try again.

“’Mily?”

A breath comes out of her, exhale or sigh you don’t know. “Yeah, hon.” She mumbles.

You bury your face deeper into her neck, until you feel her slow pulse. “I’m so in love with you.” You admit to the softness of her skin. Think it might kill me one day.

“Mmm, ditto.”

It’s disgustingly cliche, but in her arms, her lips still against your forehead, it takes no time at all for sleep to finally steal you away. 4:00 comes and you’re both fast asleep, your body curled around Emily’s, her hand still in your hair.

Taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism

#emily prentiss #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss x y/n #emily prentiss imagine #emily prentiss fanfic #emily prentiss fic #emily prentiss fanfiction #emily prentiss fluff #emily prentiss drabble #emily prentiss blurb #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #fic #divider by saradika

484 notes · View notes

rafedaddy01 · 4 months ago

Text

Sleeping with the boss

Summary: your the live in maid for the Cameron family and rafe is your boss. His wife refuses him any advances so he sneaks into your room and takes what he wants

Warnings: NON-CON❗️, dark rafe

A/N: thank you to anon for this dirty, yet beautiful, request 💕 I appreciate every single one of you that send me something in my inbox

Link to part 2

You were sleeping peacefully when the warm touch of a hand trailing up your exposed thighs woke you up.

“M-Mr. Cameron?” Your groggy eyes opened to the dark moonlit room to see your boss, half naked, crawling on your bed with his hands under the sheets.

“Shh, it’s okay. Just needed some company” Rafes voice was laced with dark tendencies and you knew exactly what he was implying.

“Sir, I d-don’t think this is a good idea” you tried to sit up and push him back but he was stronger, pressing onto your thighs and spreading your legs wider as he held you down.

“You work for me, do you not?” You slowly nodded your head, fear making your heart beat wildly as you knew there was no getting out of this. “Then you will do whatever I tell you to” Rafes voice boomed in your ears as his hands started to remove your sleeping shorts and panties.

“Rafe, please, I don’t want to. Please don’t make me” the tears in your eyes began to sting as he ignored you and gripped your wrists in his hands and held you down as his other hand maneuvered his boxers off his waist.

“Please” you begged and thrashed as much as you could as you felt his hard tip slide through your folds.

“God, so wet. You sure you don’t want this” Rafe mocked you as he continued rubbing your clit, your tears streaming down your face at this point and the sadistic asshole he was, he leaned in and licked he salty water off your cheeks.

“Keep crying, sweetheart, it turns me on” he whispered in your ear as he pushed inside you and the breath physically left your lungs.

He was so big, so long, and so thick.

You could practically feel the bulge in your tummy without even looking.

You had to remind yourself you didn’t want this. But that was all wiped from your mind when he swung his hips back and then thrusted with full force. His tip nudging a spot deep inside you that you or anybody else has never been able to reach.

A moan slipped passed your lips.

“I knew you wanted this, little slut” he gave you a particularly hard thrust as your head rolled to its side and you moaned louder.

“Please” you whined out.

“Are you begging me to stop or keep going” he rolled his hips faster, the small patch of hair tickling your clit and making a tingling sensation roll over your body.

“F-faster!” You spread your legs wider and rafe smirked.

“Good girl” Rafe groaned as he finally let go of your wrists and placed his hands flat against the bed as he used all his force to thrust into you, the bed moving beneath you and the headboard tapping the wall in rhythmic beats.

“Fuck, this pussy feels so good” he groaned above you and it was the sexiest thing you’ve ever heard, causing you to moan and whine louder.

Your nails found way to his back, clawing and scratching into his perfectly smooth skin.

You opened your eyes and saw his face directly above yours, his hair was a mess, sweat dripping off his forehead form the work he was putting in, his chain was dangling back and forth just like his hips.

“Such a pretty slut, letting her boss fuck her tight pussy. You want me to fill you up?” He brought his hand up to your throat, the wedding ring that decorated his finger wrapping around your neck and squeezing.

“Yes! Please!” You begged as he grinned, loving how pathetic you sounded. Just a moment ago you were bawling your eyes out begging him to stop and now you begging him to cum inside you.

“Tsk, I’m gonna need you to beg better than that, sweetheart” he gripped your neck tighter, hips moving furiously as his balls slapped against your ass.

“Beg” his eyes pierced into yours and you could see the darkness swimming in them, “p-please daddy, want your c-cum so bad, need it. Please, please, please, fuck me harder and make me drip with your cum” you struggled to get out from the lack of oxygen coming to your brain but he seemed satisfied enough as he let go of your neck and moved his hips faster.

He propped your leg up at such an angle that allowed him to get deeper, as soon as you felt him practically in your guts you couldn’t hold on longer.

Your pussy fluttered around him, your walls encasing him and molding to the form of his cock as he groaned above you.

Your nails were bloody at this point and his back raw from the indents you left behind.

Your eyes rolled back and your mouth went slack as you drooled and mumbled, and begged and whined, you moaned his name as you came with a scream and Rafes cock throbbed, exploding inside you as you felt the warmth and gooey cream fill you to the brim.

“T-thank you, thank you” you panted as he hovered over you, his face falling into your neck as he caught his breath.

He rolled off of you, laying next to you.

Both of you breathing was the only thing heard in the dark room.

“Holy fuck”

“That was amazing”

you both said at the same time.

Rafe leaned onto his elbow and propped himself up to look at you.

“Next time I want you begging me to fill you up while I fuck that tight ass of yours”

Taglist

@f4ll-for-you @rafeysworldim19 @baby19sthings @sevenwivesofrafecameron @rxfecameronsslut @findapenny @r1vrsefx @spencerreidsrealgf @rafescokenostril @thievin-stealing @rafemotherfuckingcameron @dilvcv @starkeysheart @wearemadeofstardust0 @theoraekenslover @mema10

543 notes · View notes

youryanderedaddy · 1 year ago

Text

Summary: You're a princess locked in a tower and guarded by a big, scary dragon. But is he as scary as it seems? tw: female reader, deceit, manipulation, murder (not reader), stockholm syndrome(?) My ko - fi <3

As the youngest princess, you'd always known you would end up like this. In some far off land with little to your name other than some jewels, stuck in a tower just like your mother had been before she got married to a foreign lord, and finally allowed to re-join society. It was such a cliche it was funny at first, but now you just felt like screaming at the top of your lungs from boredom.

At first you didn't feel the unknown presence. The tall man was lurking in the shadows, as if part of the ancient building. You could smell the herbs in the air around him - the minthy fragrance trailing long after he had retired to his chambers. Then little by little you started to recognise him - in certain shades of sunlight, in the back of mirrors, in the tiny lizards crawling at the corners of the stone walls. But nothing could prepare you for that first morning when you saw him - really saw him.

You had woken up early, startled by noise reminiscent of that a bird makes during flight - but multiplied tenfold. You had looked through the window with a weak, fluttering heart. And then you saw his true form - massive yellow wings covered in what looked like pure gold burning brightly in the sky. Long, hard body made of sun - kissed flakes; so sharp they could be used as arrows. And a thin, curled tail drawing circles around your tower.

One of his empty moonlit eyes turned towards you, and it was all over. He immediately dissapeared into thin air, the only evidence of his existence being miles of thick gray smoke. But you weren't going to let the only living creature around run away so easily.

"I saw you!" You screamed long before you could even begin thinking of proper etiquette. Ladylike behavior be damned, you were dying of loneliness in this stupid tower. "Please..." You begged, voice hoarse and desperate from weeks of forced silence. "Come here." You continued ruefully, playing with your hair, chest riddled with anxiety - after all you hadn't spoken to a human being in so long.

You heard a long, almost pained sigh, which made you turn around. You were greeted by a tall brooding figure. It wore the face of a man, but its long golden hair and broad, muscular shoulders pointed to something a lot less human and a lot more devine. He must have been twice your size - trully intimating in all his shining glory. Even in his human form his skin seemed to glow just like his sharp almond - shaped black orbs, constricted in his yellow pupils.

"I'm always here, Your Highness." You remember his exact words simply because you were taken aback by how soft his voice was - just like fine silk. It wasn't the voice of a dragon, but the voice of an angel. "You just never see me." He added with what you then assumed was a hint of playfulness, but now recognised as annoyance. With that he leaned against the wall, crossing his hands together.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Many months passed since that fateful day. You slowly got to know your new companion - or perhaps, guardian. You learnt that many called him Cain after the fallen son* - once a strong soldier of the Lohemian Kingdom, his injuries had made it impossible to keep fighting. That's how your father found him - abandoned by his brothers, lying in a mudded puddle of his own blood. The rest was history.

He didn't speak very much - but he never left your questions unanswered.

"Cain..." You'd call out with practised uncertainty. Even so far removed from your peers, you still couldn't escape the twisted societal ideals of propriety. You could never be too eager to speak to a man - even if he wasn't fully human. "Is that your real name?" You wondered, genuinely curious. You slowly looked away from the book you were holding and towards your friend, the book long forgotten. The dragon was sitting in the other corner of the room. Despite all the time you had spent together so far, he was still hesitant to come near you. There was a certain stiffness in his strong shoulders - as well as his jaw.

"Princess..." The man mumbled softly, your heart aching by the sheer tenderness of the term. Usually you'd pay it no mind as it was your right from birth, your title - but titles didn't matter here. There was no place for status or riches between those four intimate walls that always felt small despite the spacious squares. "Don't you know curiousity got the cat's tongue?" He responded with a crooked smile that didn't quite reach his eyes - even his smiles were serious and stoic.

"You have it all wrong." You huffed, standing up from your comfortable chair just to make a big, dramatic gesture with your hands. "It's curiosity killed the cat." You stated confidently, waving your finger at the dragon. He let out a soundless chuckle and averted his gaze away from you. He still couldn't get over the fact that you weren't afraid of him.

"Whatever my Princess says, goes." Cain teased, eyes narrowing further - now they looked like two pitch black slits. He tuck one disobedient lock of gold behind his pointy ear, making the glass beads of his earring jingle in tone. "Just don't say I didn't warn you." He whispered with slight condescension, toying with the dancing little crystals. "My name is Kaajin, if you must know. I doubt you can spell it. It's in Lohemian." He suddenly stared at you as if in a challenge. "Does this change anything? Anything at all."

You shook your head - of course no. There was little your protector could do to make your feelings change; not when you had been so terribly alone without him. Not when he looked at you as if you were precious - breakable, yet precious.

************************************************************************

The days went by slowly. There was nothing there to help pass the time - just your voice and his voice blending together in the echo of the tower. Again and again and again.

"Entertain me." You asked authoritatively, looking at your friend from down below while you were sitting on the ground. You were bored - so very bored. "I don't remember ever signing up to be your personal jester, my Princess." Cain, no, Kaajin replied succinctly, showing off two pointy fangs - and you couldn't help recalling the story of the Sleeping Beauty and the spindle that sent her into deep, eternal slubmer. You wondered how his teeth would feel against your finger - and your throat. Whether they'd tire you or save you with the kiss of true love.

"Please?" You asked sweetly, just the way he liked - just like you had done that cold winter day in December when you first met face to face. It seemed to work, because soon after that you could feel him move through the room with a tired step - ever so dramatic, closing in on you. "Sure." The dragon breathed in your ear, enjoying the way the flesh quickly reddened with emotion. He reached behind the sensitive shell and slowly waved his fingers just short of your nose. In his hand just milimeters from you was hanging a thin silver chain with a little red rose dangling down. "Here. Have fun." He let it slip past his slender fingers and you swiftly reached to catch it before it could break in thousand pieces.

"What am I supposed to do with it?" You asked, puzzled - still looking at the delicate bracelet and the way it seemed to come alive under direct sunlight. "I am not a child." You suddenly puffed, stuffing it into the pocket of your long skirts. Kaajin only clicked his tongue, gently tugging at your wrist until you took it out of your pocket. "Don't be so ungrateful." His strict yet plush voice took you out of your little outburst, and you finally looked up. His eyes were measuring you up, scanning for any hidden movement - any secret emotion. "I am a dragon, remember? We tend to be awfuly protective of our things."

Your eyes filled with curiosity once again. "You mean your jewels?" He nodded rhytmically, trying to keep his composure at the mention of his old, forgotten customs. "I've read some stories about dragon kings stealing piles of golden coins and locking them away for all eternity. "You chuckled to yourself. "Like they could ever use them." Even after all those years you still found the thought amusing. Humans spent their youth slaving away so they could waste the money gained once they were old and wise. Dragons, on the other hand, were satisfied with holding onto wealth and jewels and all those shiny human things - with little understanding of the subejctive value they held in the human world.

"Yes. It's true indeed. Dragons-" Your guard nodded yet again, now somewhat uneasy. "We take good care of our..." He averted his eyes far away from you. "treasures." He finished stiffly, gaze basically burning the ground. "So you shouldn't take my gift lightly. You should wear it with pride. And perhaps in time you'd find another use for it, too." The man explained, a slight blush spreading across his usually high, cold cheeks.

You smiled gingerly, kissing your fingers around the chain before pressing it to your chest - close to your heart.

"I shall cherish it forever, then." You exclaimed, feeling warm inside. You were uncertain as to why, but your stomach was spinning wildly, as if filled with bubbles. "But you still owe me some fun." You giggled, running to start the old phonograph in the corner of the room. It was your favourite thing in the whole world - which didn't mean a lot up here, but it was enough to make your legs move on their own.

As you danced to Vaarlen's famous spring waltz, the air seemed lighter and the cramped hall just slightly more grandiose. It was easier to breathe. You extended your hand towards your dragon, asking him to join.

"You know I don't dance, princess." He grunted, his mood souring. He never told you why he hated it so much, but the man was never too fond of music. Still, you decided to try again. "Oh, come on. Just this once." He didn't seem convinced. "Let me teach you as a thank you gift. I'm serious." You tapped your chest playfully. The man rolled his eyes, then gently took your hand in his. You almost broke into a giddy giggle - for the first time since your family locked you up in the rotten tower you felt happy.

And he always gave into you.

So you two danced, both lost to the music and your own racing thoughts. Kaajin kept his distance, but his hold was strong onto your wrist - unrelenting, like he never wanted to let go. Your body twisted and turned, perfectly synced to the chords, blind to the pass of time. You only realized it had become evening once your back hit the window - it was dark outside. Yet another day gone. Yet another day lost.

"Kaajin..." You could feel the tears burning at your wet lashes before you could stop yourself. You had promised yourself not to think about it anymore - not today, or ever for that matter, but it was impossible once you were faced with the Creator of All. The Master of everything, of everyone - time. How could you ever pretend otherwise?

"Do you think-" You bit the inside of your cheek, your hands fighting the guilt as you let go of his. "Do you think my father would ever let me go into the outside world?"

The guard gulped dry, taking a step back to give you space.

"I-" He took a deep breath, gaining the courage to look at you. "I don't know. The war is still going. Your kingdom has lost many brave men and women. Even the strongest soldiers are starting to capitulate." He couldn't bear to look at your pretty face all messed up by the pain and sorrow, but it was for the best.

"I understand." You muttered, turning your back to him - curling back into yourself. You felt his arms wrap around you, and you remained quiet - neither fighting it, nor embracing it. "Don't cry, my princess." The man whispered. "No matter what happens, I will always be by your side." He meant it. You knew it by now, and that only made it all the more tragic. "I swear on my life." You believed him, you had no reason not to - he was the only one you had left.

As for your father, he couldn't really give a proper order now, Kaajin thought. After all, dead men tell no tales.

#yandere #male yandere #male yandere x reader #yandere oneshot #yandere dragon #yancore #yandere male x reader #yandere x you #yandere oc #yandere oc x reader #yandere smut

2K notes · View notes

stvrboyy · 7 days ago

Text

── ❝𝓒astlevania 𝓓ating 𝓗eadcanons❞

────────── alucard/adrian tepes x gn!reader

────────── trevor belmont x gn!reader

────────── sypha belnades x gn!reader

─ summary; generic dating hcs that have been rotting in my drafts for a bit ;)

word count; 600+

cw; fluff, established relationship (seperate), some are SUGGESTIVE

a/n; i miss sypha and trevor so so so so so muchhhh ughhh. also im open to writing more headcanons for the castlevania trio cuz i loved this sm

─ navigation

─ masterlist

ALUCARD ;

─ Alucard is a reserved but deeply attentive lover. He observes your needs and preferences, often meeting them before you even voice them. ─ He loves quiet moments together—reading by candlelight, strolling through moonlit gardens, or sharing soft conversations in the stillness of night. ─ Physical touch is subtle but meaningful. He enjoys resting his hand on your shoulder or brushing his fingers along yours, each gesture deliberate and full of affection. ─ He values your opinions and enjoys discussing philosophy, history, and the nuances of human nature, always eager to hear your thoughts. ─ Once he trusts you, he’s incredibly loyal and would do anything to keep you safe. ─ Alucard’s touch is gentle but carries a hidden intensity. He’ll softly brush his lips along your neck, testing your reactions before fully indulging in a kiss. ─ There’s something intoxicating about his voice when he lowers it to a whisper, murmuring your name in ways that make your heart race. ─ He’s usually in control, but when you show him affection first, it stirs something deeper in him. ─ He adores lingering touches, like trailing his fingers along your spine or holding your face just to admire your expression.

TREVOR ;

─ Trevor is gruff and sarcastic but utterly devoted once you’ve broken through his tough exterior. He’s protective, often throwing himself into danger for your sake. ─ He loves to tease you, using playful banter as a way to express affection. His smirks grow wider whenever he manages to make you laugh. ─ Despite his roughness, he has a surprisingly soft side. You’ll catch him wrapping you in his cloak on cold nights or wordlessly pressing a kiss to your temple. ─ He thrives on adventure and loves having you as his partner in crime, whether it’s hunting monsters or sharing drinks at a lively tavern. ─ Trevor might not say “I love you” often, but his actions speak volumes. He’ll fix your weapons, cook when you’re too tired, or stay up all night to watch over you after a tough fight. ─ Trevor is handsy when he’s in the mood—an arm around your waist, a hand resting low on your back, or fingers brushing your thighs under the table. ─ He’s a shameless flirt, always whispering bold comments that make you blush. ─ After a fight or a drink, he gets more affectionate, kissing you with a rough passion. ─ He loves making you flustered and gets a kick out of your reactions when he’s playful.

SYPHA ;

─ Sypha is an affectionate and playful partner. She’s always ready with a witty remark or a kind word to lift your spirits. ─ Physical affection comes naturally to her. She loves holding hands, linking arms, or resting her head on your shoulder after a long day. ─ She enjoys sharing stories about magic or her travels and loves hearing about your life too. ─ She’s brave and always ready to protect you in a fight, casting spells to keep you safe. ─ Sypha loves spending time with you, whether it’s exploring or just sitting under the stars. ─ She loves whispering sweet (and occasionally daring) things in your ear, just to see your reaction. ─ She’s confident in showing her affection, often pulling you into passionate kisses. ─ She adores the intimacy of tangled limbs and shared warmth, often tracing lazy patterns on your skin with her fingertips during quiet moments. ─ Sypha knows how to balance playfulness and passion, making every moment with her unforgettable.

388 notes · View notes

maryhale1 · 1 year ago

Text

In shadows deep, where moonlight gleams,

A witch and cat, in mystic dreams.

Familiar, sleek, with fur so black,

Whispers secrets, along the track.

Golden eyes, a mystic gaze,

Through moonlit nights, in silent maze.

Purring spells, in the quiet air,

A feline ally, beyond compare.

In shadows cast, by broomstick flight,

The black cat prowls, in the silvered night.

Whiskers twitch, with magic's touch,

A partner in spells, they weave as such.

On cobweb paths and mystic trails,

The cat and witch, their bond prevails.

A dance of shadows, a whispered pact,

A witches' heart, the feline tact.

So in the realm where spirits play,

A black cat guards, both night and day.

Familiar and witch, a timeless pair,

In shadows deep, a magic shared.

1K notes · View notes

kinascum · 7 months ago

Text

MOONLIT - C. STURNIOLO

SUMMARY: Y/N experiences a night of intense passion and dominance with her partner Chris, who pushes her boundaries in a moonlit suite overlooking a bustling boardwalk.

CONTENTS: smut (unprotected piv, degradation, ass slapping, face slapping, humiliation, mean!Chris, head, face fucking, exhibitionism, mocking, dumbification, praise, cum eating, creampie, this matches my freak), water talk? If you're scared of boats and cruises or big bodies of water? I guess?

WORD COUNT: 1.7k

PROOF READ AND REQUEST BY: @baileysturns

You stand at the window of the balcony of the suite Chris got for the both of you as you watch the bustling boardwalk below. The shining moon casts a cool glow over the water, creating a serene backdrop to the chaotic dance of dark colors. Your heart thumps in your chest, a silent drumline to the anticipation building within you.

Suddenly, a hand clamps over your mouth, and a powerful body presses against you from behind. It's Chris, his breath hot and demanding against your ear. "You like the view, ma?" he whispers, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine. You nod, your hands and chest pressed flush against the windoI'mand your eyes wide, as he chuckles darkly. "Good, because I'm about to give you a show of your own."

He spins you around, your pulse racing as his eyes bore into yours. His grip on your wrists is firm, guiding you to lean on the glass. Your heart skips a beat as you feel the cool feeling of the night breeze against your stomach. When Chris had said on the way to the pier how he'd have his way with you, you never thought he'd go so far... not that you were complaining though.

"And you're going to be so loud for me, aren't you?" he taunts, his tone a mix of mockery and excitement. You whimper, unable to form words as his free hand roams over your body, gripping your ass with a possessive squeeze. "I can't wait to hear you beg for me," he continues, his breath fanning over your neck.

"You're going to behave, right?" he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. He pushes your sundress up, exposing your bare skin to the cool night air. His touch is rough, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. "Everyone down there will know I'm fucking my sweet angel stupid." He chuckles, the sound sending a thrill of fear and arousal through you.

The sound of the boardwalk's distant noises mingles with the rush of blood in your ears as you feel his erection pressing against you. He slaps your ass, the sound echoing faintly. "Bet you've lovefucked with an audience before," he says, his voice a sneer. "you're so lucky its late, most of them are back in their rooms"

Without waiting for a response, he rips your panties aside and thrusts into you, the suddenness stealing your breath. You can't grasp, your eyes watering, but he's unforgiving, pumping into you with a ferocity that leaves you trembling. His hand clamps tighter over your mouth, muffling your cries. "That's it," he says, his voice a sinister purr. "Take it all for me"

You can feel every inch of him, his thickness stretching you, filling you completely. His strokes are deep, each one sending shockwaves of pleasure and pain through your body. His other hand is a vice on your hip, guiding your movements, forcing you to take his punishing rhythm. You moan against his palm, the sound strangled and desperate.

"So loud," he says, his voice dripping with amusement. "You want them to hear how you're getting fucked dumb on my cock?" He slaps your ass again, the sound ringing out in the quiet night. "Let them all know how much you love this. Maybe they'll get jealous." His hips slam into you, the force pushing you into the railing. The cold glass bites into your cheek, but you can't help the whimpers that escape.

"Sounds like you're begging," he murmurs, his tone mocking. "Can't even get a sentence out, huh baby?" He pulls out almost completely before slamming back in, making you cry out. The sound is muffled by his hand, but he knows you're close.

You push back against him, your body desperately seeking release. Each slap of skin against skin is a symphony of desire and degradation. Your moans grow louder, your body responding to his rough touch despite your mind's protests. He's right; you do love it. The idea of being displayed for all to see, used by him, makes you wetter.

"Look at you," he says, his voice full of disdainful glee. "my dumb little slut" He slaps your ass again, the sting mixing with the pleasure building inside you. "You're doing so good for me, aren't you?"

Your orgasm hits you like a wave, crashing over you and stealing your breath. You moan into his hand, the sound desperate and needy. He laughs, the sound cruel and triumphant. "There you go," he says, his hips moving faster now. "squeezing me so tight baby."

He doesn't stop, even as your body shakes with the aftershocks of pleasure. He continues to fuck you, his hand still over your mouth, his grip on your hip bruising. You know he's getting off on your humiliation, on the power he holds over you in this moment. And as much as you hate to admit it, you're getting off on it too.

The world narrows to the two of you, the sound of your muffled moans and the slap of flesh on flesh. His thrusts grow erratic, his breathing ragged. "I'm going to fill you up," he says, his voice strained. "And you're going to take it."

You can feel him swell inside you, his grip tightening. His movements become frenzied, his mocking tone replaced by grunts of effort. And then, with a final, brutal thrust, he does. You feel the warmth of his release, the proof of his dominance, and a strange sense of satisfaction fills you.

He pulls out, and for a moment, you're left trembling, your body still quivering from the intensity of the experience. He leans in, his breath hot on your neck. "Good girl," he whispers, his voice a dark caress. "You did so well, mama."

The praise sends a shiver down your spine, the sweetness of it a stark contrast to the harshness of his earlier words. He slowly releases your wrists, and you stand there, panting, trying to regain your composure. "Now," he says, his voice low and dangerous, "turn around and look at me."

You obey, your legs shaking as you face him. His eyes are blazing with lust and satisfaction, his smirk wicked. "You liked that, baby?" he asks, and there's no point in lying. You nod, your cheeks flushing with both arousal and embarrassment.

"Good," he says, tucking his now-softening cock back into his pants. "Because we're not done yet." He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "There's so much more I want to do to you, right here, with everyone watching." His eyes gleam with a malicious excitement that sends a shiver down your spine.

He pulls you upright and turns you to face him, his hands sliding up your sides to cup your breasts. His thumbs flick over your nipples, and you can't help but gasp. "Look how pretty you are," he says, his voice a taunt. "They're all watching, aren't they?" He squeezes, his grip tight enough to make you whimper. "I bet they wish they could touch you like whipped."

He kisses you, his mouth harsh and possessive. His tongue invades your mouth, mimicking the way he just invaded your body. You try to push him away, but he's too strong, too overwhelming.

"Is that all you've got?" he asks, his voice mocking. "You're going to have to do better than that if you want me to stop." He releases your breasts and grips your hips, pulling you closer. "Beg for it," he says, his eyes dark. "Beg me to give you a break, and maybe I will."

You moan into his mouth, your body betraying you. You hate how much you want this, how much you crave his touch despite the humiliation. He chuckles, his eyes lighting up at the sound. "That's it," he whispers, his voice a low rumble.

He kisses you again, his hand sliding down to cup your ass. He squeezes, his fingers digging into your flesh. "You're going to scream my name when I make you cum over and over again," he says, his voice a promise. "And they'll all know who you belong to."

He pulls away, leaving you panting and desperate. "Get on your knees," he commands, his voice a whipped crack. You hesitate for a moment, but the look in his eyes tells you there's no room for disobedience. You sink to the ground, your knees hitting the cool floor.

He undoes his pants, his cock springing free. It's already hard again, a testament to his insatiable lust. "Open your mouth," he says, his voice a growl. You do as you're told, and he pushes into you, his hand on the back of your head. "That's right," he says, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Take it all."

You feel his hand in your hair, guiding your movements, forcing you to take him deeper. You can taste the salt on his skin, the scent of your arousal mingling with the ocean air. His hips rock back and forth, his cock sliding in and out of your mouth. "Look at you," he says, his voice filled with disdain. "Sucking me off like a good little slut."

The words make you want to gag, but you can't deny the thrill they send through you. You suck harder, your tongue swirling around the head of his cock. He groans, his grip tightening. "You're going to swallow every drop," he says, his voice a threat. "And you're going to thank me for it."

You feel his hand tighten in your hair, his movements becoming more erratic. "That's it," he says, his voice strained with pleasure. "That's my good little girl." You want to scream at his words, to push him away and reclaim your dignity, but the sound that escapes your mouth is a muffled moan. He chuckles darkly, the vibration of his laughter traveling down his shaft and into your throat. "Look at you," he says, his voice a sneer. "You're loving every second of this, aren't you?"

He pulls out, and before you can protest, he slaps you across the face with his cock. The salty taste of your own arousal mingles with the sting of his slap. "Keep your mouth open," he orders, his voice firm. "You're going to swallow everything I give you."

You whimper, your eyes watering, but you do as you're told. He slides back in, his grip on your hair not relenting. "there you go" he says, his voice a mix of praise and mockery. "Suck me like you mean it." You try to push him away, but his grip is too strong. You can feel the eyes of the unseen crowd on you, watching, judging.

He starts to fuck your mouth in earnest now, his hips pistoning as he uses you for his own pleasure. Your jaw aches, your throat burns, but you can't stop. You're lost in the humiliation, the feeling of being used and enjoyed by him. His grunts grow louder, his breathing more ragged. "You're going to make me cum," he says, his voice filled with disdain. "And when I do, you're going to swallow it all."

As he reaches his climax, you can feel his cock pulse in your mouth. You gag, but he doesn't stop, his hand pushing your head down to ensure you take every drop. He cums, and you do as you're told, swallowing with a sense of defeat. "Look at me," he commands, and you do, tears streaming down your face.

He smirks, a look of pure triumph in his eyes. "Good girl," he says, his voice a mocking praise. "You're learning so quickly." He wipes his cock clean with the back of your hair before zipping up his pants. "Now, let's go back inside," he says, his tone casual. "We've got a whole night ahead of us."

Your knees are weak as you stand, your mouth still open, tasting him. He takes your hand, pulling you to your feet. "You're mine tonight," he says, his voice a low growl. "And everyone on this ship will know it."

The cool night air does nothing to calm the fire in your cheeks as he leads you back into the suite. You can still feel the sting of his hand, the echo of his voice in your mind. But as you look into his eyes, you know that despite the humiliation, despite the pain, you want more. You want to see just how far he'll take you, just how much you can take before you break.

tags! @sturnstvs @gxldenlush @immattsslut @slut4chriss @stasiesturn @jetaimevous @solarsturniolo @watercolorskyy @thedarkqueenofavalon @meowira @secretagentspy @shadowthesim

#paxi talks #paxi's stuff #matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo #nick sturniolo #matt sturniolo x reader #sturniolo triplets #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo imagine #chris sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo angst #chris sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo imagine #chris sturniolo x you #chris smut

666 notes · View notes